Injustice Has Been Served
by wrestlefan4
Summary: Christmas 1994 Shawn finds his daughter dead. A suspect is tried for the crime and found guilty. But the problem? Injustice has been served and an innocent man must pay the ultimate price, a lifetime behind prison bars. Shawn,Taker,others.
1. Chapter 1

_The homicides of young children are committed largely by family members using beatings and suffocation boys and girls are victimized about equally. A large portion of offenders are female. –Crimes Against Children Research Center_

_Christmas Morning 1994_

When Shawn woke up, his mind uncurling itself from the lingering fog of a dream, he immediately felt a strange sort of twinge, a knowingness, a wrongness. He sat up in bed and blinked around the room waiting to find something out of place such as the drawers hanging open like yawning mouths, staring at him like empty eye sockets. He could imagine them devoid of clothing because his girlfriend had bundled it up into a suitcase and flown the coop. However, this was not the case. The dresser seemed in order, her cosmetics and jewelry still littered the polished top of the massive piece of furniture. Lacey, his long time girlfriend, had selected it specifically. She had thrown a fit like a tantrum-raging child when Shawn expressed his own opinion which never mattered…She had obviously gotten her way and the dresser along with a matching vanity set and bed now took up residence in their bedroom. Shortly after the furniture moved in, Lacey decided she hated it. That was typical Lacey behavior.

Despite seeing that the room looked to be normal and in order Shawn still felt that something was off this morning, some malicious thing was creeping around the house just waiting to kill the joy of the day. Maybe it was Lacey's monthly? That could most definitely destroy a good day. Shawn cocked his head to the side in thought but he couldn't remember, but he knew that was not it.

Still unable to shake the feeling he threw the covers away from his body and made his way to the closet. He pulled open the doors to the spacious walk in closet and saw that all was well and untouched. Lacey's clothes hung perfectly and in order by color just the way she meticulously organized it. Her shoes lined the bottom of the closet filed neatly one beside the other like battalions of soldiers: spiky heels, wedges, espadrilles, and flats.

Shawn sighed seeing the closet remained unmolested by fingers hurrying to snatch garments away in a frenzy to leave the house. Lacey had been threatening to leave for months on end because of the constant arguing and bickering between the two. Shawn doubted she would go through with her threats of leaving. She loved his wallet too much. Her orderly clothes assured him she remained in the relationship, but even still, some foreign anxiety continued to run its fingers along his spine in shivers. Those fingers plucked the strings of his heart like digits of a mad laughing harpist pulling off sour, sickening, notes.

Shawn grabbed his robe from the foot of his bed and wrapped it around his frame as he made his way down the hallway. He stopped and placed his hands on the railing which was draped with happy silver and blue garland. Shawn would have chosen the more traditional red and green, but Lacey insisted on blue and silver. Shawn gazed over it down into the living room which was also decked in the icy colors of Lacey's choice. Shawn's blue eyed gaze affixed to the Christmas tree decorated with glassy spires of ice and dazzling blue and silver orbs. The white lights flickered among the dark green needles like stars winking down upon a snow blanketed world. Atop the tree was a large angel with spirals of golden hair, a hand painted face touched with a snow-kissed blush and a heavenly stare, a flowing, ribbony dress, and a pair of iridescent wings that looked as fragile as a butterfly's. If one would look close enough, a spidery crack would be seen in one wing, one that Shawn had super-glued back together. Suddenly, his heart grew heavy. In his mind he saw his daughter, her big blue eyes enthralled at the glittery gorgeousness of the celestial being that Shawn had held in his hands just days ago.

"_Want to put__ it on top baby?__"_

_The little girls__'__ impossibly big bright eyes grew even bigger and__ brighter._

"_Yes Daddy,__ I wanna do it!__"_

_Shawn hoisted his daughter up and her small hands cradled the fragile angel. The little girl admired it with her eyes all aglow. She ran her fingers carefully over the dainty ribbon dress and caressed the soft golden curls before holding it up and readying it to place it atop the Christmas tree. Shawn saw it slipping from her tiny fingers but he couldn__'__t stop it from__ falling._

"_No!__" __His__ daughter__'__s face morphed into a look of horror, her mouth dropping open in an O.__ Her eyes immediately brimmed over with tears. Shawn planted her feet back to the floor and he bent to pick up the angel and a piece of its wing. __"__Daddy, it__ broke!"__ Hot streaks of tears rolled down his daughters pink__ cheeks._

"_Don__'__t cry__ baby, Daddy can fix it."_

Shawn's heart began to thud hard against his sternum. With a sudden and terrifying sense of clarity he knew. It was Jorrie, it had to be Jorrie. _No, not my baby. God, it can__'__t be my__ baby!_ Shawn tried to reason with himself to stay calm as he ran down the hallway his robe billowing out behind him as he went. He bounded into his daughters room expecting to be washed in a flood of relief at finding her swaddled in her blankets with one arm hooked protectively around her favorite teddy bear and a thumb stuck firmly between her lips. Instead of relief, panic exploded like an atomic bomb sending Shawn's mind reeling and his body off balance. He steadied himself on her dresser for a moment and then called hoarsely into the emptiness of the room.

"Jorrie? Jorrie, where are you sweetie?"

He threw the covers away from her bed as if this would somehow produce his daughter. He dragged his hand over his face which was rough with morning stubble and slicked with scared sweat. His eyes darted around the room frantically before landing on the closet. He ran to it and flung the door open but his daughter was not hiding in there. He dropped to his knees and crawled to the bed growing more frantic with each passing moment. He pulled up the frilly skirt of her bed to find nothing but a lost sock and a forgotten Barbie doll among the few drifting dust bunnies.

Shawn tore out of the room with all kinds of fears racing through his mind: Lacey took her out somewhere. That thought, which would have relieved his fears, was promptly proven to be false when Lacey stepped out of the bathroom. Shawn nearly ran straight into her.

"Shawn sweetie, what's wrong?" Lacey asked, her eyes filling with the panic she saw reflected in his. She clutched at the towel that was wrapped around her body drinking up lingering beads of water from her shower.

"Where's Jorrie? I-I had a bad feeling and I went to check on her and get her up and she--she's not in her room."

Lacey's face paled in alarm at Shawn's stuttered question and statement. He grabbed her shoulders and begged her to tell him that his daughter was safe.

"She's in the bathroom isn't she? You had her in the bathroom with you doing her hair or something right? Right Lacey?"

His girlfriend swiveled her head.

"No, I thought she was still asleep. Have you checked down stairs?" Her voice trembled with the anxiety her boyfriend was passing to her. His hands still gripped her wet shoulders and the quivering of his hands seemed to pass from him to her like a sizzling course of electricity.

No, that has to be it, she just went downstairs to get a drink or something or maybe she got excited about Christmas and went downstairs by herself.

Shawn pushed past his girlfriend and took the steps two at a time. He tried still to calm himself but he knew that he would not find his daughter hiding behind the Christmas tree touching all the wrapped boxes, he knew he would not come upon her sitting at the table munching a gingerbread man or sipping some milk, he knew he wouldn't see her with her face pressed to the back door wondering why it didn't snow today. This day was not joyful or jolly it was ominous and something horrible was just waiting to show itself. Shawn knew this more than he had ever known anything before in his life.

Soon he and Lacey were scrambling from room to room checking every nook and cranny and calling out Shawn's daughters name over and over like some sort of sick, harmonizing, Christmas carol.

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light. From now all of your troubles will be out of sight…_

"Jorrie! Baby girl, where are you? You need to come out for Daddy!"

"Shawn," Lacey ran a hand through her damp hair and spoke his name in a harsh sob. Tears spilled down her face and she wiped a few away on the back of her hand. "I'm scared, Shawn I'm scared. I'm going to call the police." She picked up the phone and began pushing buttons with her trembling finger. "Where haven't we looked?"

Shawn paced the floor feeling the worst thing a father can feel, helpless. Something was wrong with his little girl, she wasn't at home where she belonged. He couldn't come and check for the monster under her bed, he couldn't tuck the blankets up to her chin and tell her it was going to be okay, he couldn't stroke her soft hair and give her comfort. She wasn't here, she was gone, where was she, where damn it!

"Maybe you should look around outside or something ."

"Outside, yeah maybe she went outside for some reason." Shawn gave Lacey's shoulder a quick squeeze. "It'll be okay, she's probably just outside." Shawn hoped this was the answer. He left Lacey in the living room with the phone pressed to her ear and took off to find his daughter.

"911 emergency."

"Y-yes, I'm Lacey LaReaux and…my…boyfriend's daughter is missing."

Shawn walked through the kitchen where he had hoped to find his daughter earlier but hadn't. He made his way to the back door ready to go outside and find his daughter perched on the steps or playing on the lawn. His hand froze, the fingertips just brushing the knob. A shiver coursed up his spine and back down again. That knowing feeling escalated to something even more. Shawn turned away from the back door and faced another, it led to the basement.

_Why would she be in the basement? She can__'__t be down there, it__'__s dark and scary it__'__s no__ place for a child she hates the basement, why would she __be down there?_

Shawn tromped down the stairs and came to an abrupt stop. His stomach flipped and flopped and the muscles there tightened threatening to make him sick. He reached out towards the item he saw crumpled on the floor and stumbled forward falling onto the cold concrete and raking skin away from his knees. He drew the discarded cloth towards him and a sob erupted from deep within his chest.

_No, no please no!_

"Jorrie! Jorrie sweetie, Jorrie baby are you down here?"

Shawn got to his feet still clutching the Hannah Montana pajama shirt. He groped around on the wall to find the light switch and illuminate the room. Fear crawled up his throat as his mind reeled over what he could find once the pale light washed over the cold stone of the basement floor.

_Maybe, just maybe if I turn the light on I__'__ll wake up to find out this is some insane,__ unreal, nightmare. I__'__ll wake up and find Jorrie bouncing on the bed all excited__ because it__'__s Christmas morning and she__'__s ready to go downstairs and open her__ gifts. I__'__ll go down there wit__h her and Lacey and we__'__ll watch as she tears away__ the wrapping and tissue paper, the bows and ribbons, to find a Fisher-Price doll-house or the Cinderella doll, or the pink princess dress-up set, or the Elmo we bought after getting to the store at 4:00am and waiting in the line for hours. Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light__…_

Shawn flicked on the light.

_Soon all of your troubles will be out of sight__._

He took a deep, quick, breath that filled his chest with stabbing pain and then spun around to see…

Nothing?

Shawn blinked around at the space of the basement and saw there was something after all. Another crumpled ball of cloth lay on the floor further across the room right in front of the door that led to the laundry room. That door was ajar.

Shawn felt like a ghost disconnected from his body as he stepped forward on numb feet. The dull thud of his heart pounding and the quickening whoosh-whoosh of blood pumping in his ears was deafening. He pushed the door open and saw the dryer and washer standing as silent witnesses to the obscenity that was lying half shrouded in their shadows.

Shawn fell to his knees and bent over the blanket, it was Jorrie's favorite, the one with Garfield on it. He pulled the corner away to reveal his daughters face ashen, her lips slightly parted and bluish around a sock stuffed in as a gag, her eyes half-opened and listless. Shawn tore the sock out of her mouth and pressed his lips to hers and found them icy. _No, no they can__'__t be cold, she__'__s alive they can__'__t be__ cold!_

He gave his own breath and pressed her small, naked, chest in attempt to revive her but his pleas and frantic efforts remained useless, her lips really were blue and chilly, her eyes really were dull and depleted of life.

"Jorrie, please angel!" Shawn panted as he broke the bond between his lips and his daughters. He drew her stiff form into his chest and cradled her head. He lost his fingers in her golden blond curls. Sobs forced themselves up his throat and out of his mouth like the cries of a man stabbed deep in the heart with the icy blade of an ancient dagger. Words tumbled out in jumbles of appeals and hollow assurances. "Jorrie Lee, Daddy's here. Daddy's going to fix it baby, Jorrie don't cry Daddy's going to fix it!"

Shawn held his fragile, beautiful, little angel and pressed his tear soaked cheek close to hers. He rocked her in his arms, unable to fix her brokenness.

* * *

_This is most likely going to be updated very slowly. Reviews are very much appreciated! :) Thank you!!_


	2. Chapter 2

_How little do they see what really is, who frame their hasty judgments upon that which seems.__-__Robert Southey_

Shawn hugged his arms and blinked through his tears. They seemed to pour and drip continuously like a leaky faucet that the landlord neglected to repair. He shivered. The interrogation room was so icy both in temperature and in appearance. It was tomblike with cold steal table and the one way mirror that glimmered back at him like some strange, glaring, eyeball.

He would always remember the two detectives who questioned him. Both had seemed to convict him of the crime before he could even utter a word in his defense. The fact that police had found no forced entry to the home was probably to thank for their premature judgment, although Shawn was innocent, the discovery of that evidence deflated the possibility of Shawn's total innocence. The two detectives had long since waved that notion away.

One of those men was a tall, lanky, balding man named Ringer. His voice was like the constant annoying bark of a sore throated dog and his eyes were like cold stones that told Shawn the man despised him. The second detective was Thomas who was almost a cartoon stereotype. His gut was like a great cauldron of jelly and he didn't walk into the room but waddled. There was a smear of pink frosting on his dress shirt that strained and stretched over his enormous paunch. Shawn's nerves were so shot his mind concocted all sorts of odd things and he bit his lips to just keep from laughing hysterically like a madman. He imagined one of the buttons on the fat cops shirt popping and hitting Shawn in the eye. Maybe that would be a relief because then he wouldn't have to look at the scrawny cops sunken face, shadowed with too much stubble, heavy with accusation.

"Mr. Hickenbottom." Thomas started. He leaned forward in his chair and it groaned at the shifted weight. "We're very sorry about your loss. The murder of a child is the most heinous crime off all. I know this may be hard to talk about, but we need to ask you a few questions."

For some reason all Shawn could focus on was Thomas's massive double chin bobbling as he spoke. It looked like a goiter that consumed his neck in its hunger. Detective Thomas cleared his throat loudly and Shawn startled. Tears dripped from Shawn's eyes and rolled down his chin.

"Yes?" He managed to find his voice but it came out in a strained, barely audible whisper.

"Can you tell us what happened Christmas morning starting from when you woke up?"

Shawn's blue eyes blinked back at the blubberous cop. His mind played images from that day causing him to cringe. His stomach knotted itself painfully and he didn't even realize he was holding his midsection. These visions had plagued him for so many nights. The last time he looked in the mirror he had barely recognized himself. His eyes were always swollen from crying that didn't seem to stop. They were shadowed underneath by the color of sleeplessness, deep purple that marked the passage of darkness without relief. His nose was chapped and cracked from constant rubbing, his jaw sported thick stubble, and his hair was tied back in a haphazard ponytail. At least he had gotten up enough self respect to shower, or at least to stand under the water as it ran over his body, never really making him feel clean. After holding his dead daughter in his arms he didn't know if he would ever feel clean again.

One thing he knew for a fact, those images would never, ever leave his mind. Now these idiots were making him open his mouth and actually talk about those images, a thing he had yet to do. He could have found some comfort in the thought that although he had to relive them for the detectives, it was for the good of his daughter, for some sort of justice and closure, to find the monster who had snuffed out her candle before it even had a chance to shine. But Shawn knew in his heart that those thoughts were bullshit. Just looking at these men he knew that they had already made up their minds. Their minds knew that it was Shawn who had murdered his daughter.

"Mr. Hickenbottom?" The twiggy cop scowled and leaned over the table. "I understand this is difficult, but we need you to talk. Don't make this difficult." He pursed his lips tight together like a scolding mother which made Shawn somehow feel little and in trouble.

"I-I woke up and just…felt that something was…wrong." Shawn whispered dropping his head and watching the tiny teardrops plop onto his khaki pants. He drew in a deep breath and let it out with a shudder like a cold wind rattling dead leaves across the street. "I went to look for her."

"Your daughter?" Thomas asked for clarification. Shawn nodded. "Where did you look first?"

"Her room. I was trying to tell myself she was fine, that she was still asleep with her little teddy bear…" Shawn's voice began to quiver and it rose in pitch. He took a moment or two to try and steady it before going on. Those few moments hadn't worked. His voice still came out broken. "Mr. Blue, that's what she called the teddy bear…Mr. Blue." Shawn shook his head dismally. "She wasn't in bed."

"Was the bed made?"

"Yes." Shawn clearly remembered the bed being made although until now he hadn't really realized it. It suddenly brought up questions. Why would someone do such a cruel thing to his daughter and remember to make the bed? Was the bed made after the murder? After he took her from the bed? It seemed to be a gesture of caring, or maybe the monster was just a tidy monster. The twiggy cop narrowed his eyes at Shawn and he somehow knew the detective was mulling over the same questions. "Then I checked the closet, under the bed, she wasn't there."

"When we got there the bed was unmade." Thomas spoke up causing his chin fat to wobble. "You sure you're remembering right?"

"Yes. The bed was made and I pulled the covers away…I don't know why I just did. It was just automatic." Shawn replied. His chest was beginning to tighten as his mind was causing his body to relive the panicked sensations he felt that day.

The recounting of that morning went on with Shawn having to pause at times, so overwhelmed by his emotions he could no longer speak. Once in a while one of the cops would ask a question, Shawn would answer, and then he would lurch forward with the story feeling every memory like a painful knife gnawing and twisting at his insides. At last the play by play of the morning was completed and he broke down in a mess of quaking sobs. Shawn was allowed time to collect himself, if that was even possible. He sat alone in the room—it was like a casket, it made him feel claustrophobic. After he managed to swallow his sobbing a woman with sympathetic eyes led him out of the room. She looked like she would like to hug him was she not on duty but just that feeling that she conveyed with her eyes was enough to bring Shawn some comfort. It seemed so hard to find much of anyone who was very sympathetic to him, a father grieving over the loss of his child.

It had been nearly a week since Christmas day, 1994. It had been three days since the first interrogation. Over that period of time the media had swarmed the house, the police, and Shawn. His home was now wrapped up in yellow police tape. It was no longer his home but a crime scene. It was nothing more than a haunted space that CSI and police had trampled over and turned upside down in efforts to uncover the truth about what happened to Jorrie.

Lacey was holed up at her mother's house for a while but had then taken to giving emotional interviews freely. Shawn was staying in a hotel which was occasionally barraged by groups of journalists who found out he was there. The hotel room was as much of a tomb as was the interrogation room. Shawn hated it, room 112 was drab even though he took down the curtains to let light in, or maybe it wasn't the room but his heart which had turned dim and dismal. Shawn sunk onto his bed and wondered if any light could penetrate the darkness that hung over him.

He picked up the remote and was going to switch on the t.v. and channel surf idly. When he pressed the power button the screen remained black and lifeless. He tried once more, then remembered he had unplugged the t.v. because he had literally became sick to his stomach from seeing nothing smeared across the news channels but the sensational story of his daughters death. From updates by dull spoken news anchors, to heated commentary between Nancy Grace and well known lawyers and criminologists, to Larry King having Lacey as a guest on his show, the list went on. Jorrie was everywhere, and nowhere. Her death was everything, yet reduced to nothing, only theories and opinions by people who knew nothing. They were like dogs fighting over a huge, juicy, bone. As time progressed the media hounds only got more and more vicious, not caring who they bit in their fight over the newest update.

_Murder on Christmas Morning! Daughter of Wealthy Businessman Found Dead! Father Suspected in Death of Young Daughter! Alleged Sexual Abuse in Jorrie Hickenbottom Case! Investigation Into Death of Jorrie Hickenbottom: Father Is Prime Suspect! _

"Hickenbottom." Thomas said entering the room, his gut preceding him.

Shawn found himself back in the too small, still cold, interrogation room only three days after the first rehash of the events of Christmas morning. The harsh glares he received now were even worse than the initial ones. He knew immediately that something was horribly wrong. Fatty's chin wobbled as he pressed his lips together in attempt to mute his anger that was unable to be hidden by his burning eyes and balled fists. Twiggy leaned over the table and pulled his lips back in a wolfish snarl. He spat words out as though they tasted sour like bile.

"Hickenbottom, I have something very important in this folder." Twiggy dropped the manilla folder onto the metal table and tapped a bony finger on it. "Do you know what this is?" His eyes disappeared into tiny slits of despise, his lips still held tight to that sickish snarl, and his yellowish, over large teeth glared at Shawn.

"N-no sir." Shawn blinked back confused at the actions and demeanor of the two men.

"Why don't you save us the trouble of all this bullshit and just confess?" Twiggy spat. "You know, I'm detective Ringer, and I live up to my name. I will get the full truth out of you one way or another. I will ring your ass dry you sorry piece of shit!" His fisted hand crashed down onto the manilla folder and sent Fatty's mug of coffee to rattling. Fatty grabbed the coffee cup with one hand and Ringer's shoulder with the other. He nudged the stick-like man down into his chair. Shawn's mouth fell opened in a shocked O and for a moment it worked up and down wordlessly. At last he blurted out:

"What are accusing me of? I didn't do anything!"

"Hickenbottom we have very damning evidence suggesting that you did." Fatty Thomas said laying a chubby hand onto the folder and dragging it towards him.

"Evidence! No, you can't have anything on me, there's a mistake. I didn't kill my daughter!" Shawn's voice erupted from his throat in a volcanic outburst. His rage overpowered his cloud of depression. Just what in the fuck were these men suggesting?

"DNA doesn't lie Mr. Hickenbottom!" Twiggy Ringer shot back flying up once again from his chair and banging his fist onto the table.

"Damn it Stephen, sit down!" Fatty hissed and put the balding detective back roughly into his seat. "Hickenbottom…" Thomas rubbed at the unattractive stubble gracing is equally unattractive double chin. "Let's talk straight." Thomas laced his thick fingers together and leaned forward over the table. "Our medical examiner found a lot of evidence that points to you. We have hair samples matching your DNA, fibers matching your robe under your daughter's fingernails, we have your finger prints on a key piece of evidence, your sock used in her mouth as a gag, the list goes on. If you think those things don't damn you, there's more."

Shawn's mind was spinning out of control. Thomas's words echoed and tumbled over and over in his head. Shawn knew he did not kill his child, the very thought was absurd and sickening, but these cops had evidence against him. How?

"Look, I didn't hurt Jorrie! My daughter is my life, was my life, I love her! I would never hurt her, ask Lacey I couldn't even bring myself to sit her in time out!" Shawn cried getting up from his chair and pacing the room frantically. He pulled at his golden hair. "I held my daughter in my arms, that's why my hair was on her…" He wracked his brain for reasonable explanations for the other evidence but could find none. Shawn knew that the police had found no signs of forced entry into the home, that narrowed suspects down considerably, but Shawn knew there had to be some way some stranger, some sick and demented demon, had got into their home and stolen his baby away from him on Christmas. There had to be some way for that, but Shawn knew if that person had came into his room and rummaged in his drawer for a gag he would have woke up. That thought was just stupid anyway. If the murderer wanted a gag he would have most likely brought his own or used something in Jorrie's room rather than waking up the parents just to get a sock. The robe? What kind of murderer would take the fathers robe and wear it while killing the child then bring it back and drape it over the end of the bed as Shawn had exactly left it the night before? It didn't add up at all. Even to Shawn, everything pointed to him, but he was innocent.

"Hickenbottom you're a smart man. I'm sure you know about DNA. It's unique to the individual. No one else shares the same pattern as you. A DNA match is flawless." Thomas flipped open the folder and lay a piece of paper on the table. "This is the result from the DNA that was found on your daughter's body."

At that, Twiggy Ringer snarled again. He looked like he might start to hack up something hot and sour like a dog ready to heave up the garbage of its guts.

"DNA? What do you mean DNA was found on Jorrie's body?" Shawn snatched the paper from the table and his disbelieving blue orbs roamed over it staring at it incredulously. "What do you mean? DNA comes from bodily fluids…what was…what was on her? What are you talking about!" Shawn's voice rose to a wavering shout. The word swam in his mind, he knew what the detectives meant, but he did not want to accept that word.

"Semen." Detective Ringer spat. "The M.E. found semen on your daughter's torso." He pulled pictures from the file and spread them on the table. Shawn saw the colorless corpse of his daughter displayed like a science project on a coroners table. The first picture showed the glow of a splattered substance across her torso, lit up by Luminol. His eyes moved on to the next photo and he immediately wished he hadn't seen it.

"You idiot!" Thomas growled and shoved the more gruesome pictures back into the file. Shawn's knees turned to water and gave out on him. He fell to all fours onto the floor and choked on his vomit. His head threatened to shut down with the overload of the imagery he had seen when his eyes had briefly caught the glimpse of some of the other pictures: his baby girls legs splayed wide to display her inner thighs and privates, bruised and cut, and one close up of the bruise on her neck compared with a belt, Shawn's belt, which must have been used to strangle her. He vomited again and the hot chunks tore at his throat making it raw and ragged. His stomach heaved painfully as though trying to dislodge its self from his body. His mind wheeled dizzily and the images Shawn had just seen coupled with the ones that plagued him from the day he found his daughter, they burned the back of his eyelids like demons.

Shawn grabbed the corner of the table and managed to pull himself up on legs that were rubber. He fell back into his chair a shivering bundle of unbridled nerves that jangled and writhed like millions of tiny live wires. He was sure he would remain shivering and quivering uncontrollably forever. He would never be able to still himself after what he had seen. He groaned a strangled cry of despair.

"What do you mean idiot!" Ringer shouted at his partner. "That somabitch strangled his little girl, sexually assaulted her with a beer bottle, got his fucking jollies, and left his little present all over her! So what if the fucker spews, so what if he bawls his goddam eyes out, he should!"

Thomas looked ready to kill his partner who had become carried away in his emotions. The cauldron bellied cop ushered his toothpick counterpart out of the interrogation room as he continued to rant.

"I'm sorry." Fatty Thomas apologized and hitched up his pants before returning to the table. "I'm not sorry for you. I'm just sorry my partner was acting so unprofessional." Thomas said loosening his tie and sitting back down in the chair which sighed its usual protesting creak at his bulk.

"Look here Hickenbottom, this is your DNA." Thomas continued. He pulled another paper from the file being careful not to drag any of those horrible autopsy photos out with it. He placed the chart of Shawn's DNA next to the sample taken from the body of his little angel Jorrie. Shawn stared at both sheets, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.

"No, please no, there's some kind of mistake!" Shawn sobbed. His voice was so distorted and distraught he could barely be understood. "No, no you've go it wrong something's wrong!"

"Yes it is Hickenbottom, yes it is. A child lost her life, and that is what is terribly, sadly, wrong here." Thomas rose from the chair relieving it from its duty of propping up his mass. He rounded the table and stood behind Shawn who was slumped like an empty sack in his chair. His small frame wracked with deep sobs. Cold, metallic rings snapped tight around Shawn's wrists. "Michael Hickenbottom, you are under arrest for murder in the first degree."

_I know some was a bit graphic but that's crime. It's not pretty…and this fic is not meant to be pretty either. Anyway review please…what are your thoughts on the evidence against Shawn? Do you think Shawn did it? What about the detectives? I'm curious to see what you all think. Thanks mucho! Love to ya!_


	3. Chapter 3

_In the part of this universe that we know there is great injustice and often the good suffer. —Bertrand Russell_

_August 1995_

Shawn dipped his head down in a futile attempt to dodge the glaring eyes of prodding camera lenses and assaulting questions cried by many voices yelling at once. Concerned and enraged citizens pumped signs up and down scribbled with Bible verses, adorned with paper photos of his daughter, and harsh words of condemnation to Shawn. Nearly a year after his daughters' murder the sensationalism and the outrage of it had yet to simmer down.

Shawn just tried to shuffle along as fast as he could. They didn't have him in ankle shackles but still it was hard to make his feet march onward. His whole body was tired and worn with a year of unwarranted guilt weighing down on him. Each night when he tried to sleep he was haunted with images of his angels' brutalized corpse and his fingers grew chilly as though the coldness of her dead skin still lingered against his empty fingers.

Sometimes Shawn tried to sleep with Jorrie's teddy bear Mr. Blue and once in a while that little piece of her would be enough to comfort him. If he buried his face into the little stuffed creature he was sure he could still smell the soft, sweet, scent of her tearless shampoo clinging to the fuzzy fibers.

"Baby killer!" An irate female voice shouted from somewhere among the crowd who gathered outside the courthouse awaiting the sensational trial of Michael Shawn Hickenbottom for the murder of his daughter. A few tears slipped down Shawn's cheeks and dripped onto the toes of his black shoes which scuffled along down the cracked sidewalk and up the broken stairs to the ominous building which was to be the place where his fate would be decided, where "justice" would be dealt.

He stopped at the entrance and raised his head to look over the stone carvings and the marble archway. One of the police officers surrounding him grunted and nudged him forward none to gently and Shawn stepped through the doors followed by a barrage of cursing and trash being thrown at him and bouncing off of the backs of the police officers who were not at all happy about it. Shawn felt the same now as he did when first meeting with detectives Thomas and Ringer: these people had already convicted him. Even the change in venue had not seemed to help. His daughters' murder made national headlines and even here there were people who were so infuriated with Shawn's presence that they dare to wave signs begging justice for a little girl they didn't even know.

Shawn stroked the stuffed animal under his arm as the officers escorted him across the marble floored lobby, so silent and morbid like a tomb, to the set of doors that led to the courtroom. Shawn's throat dried up and ached at the thought of stepping into that room. The prosecutor was rabid about seeking justice for little Jorrie which meant she was pushing for the death penalty. Shawn's attorney had tried to get him to accept a plea bargain in which Shawn would plead guilty to second degree murder rather than first and be sentenced to a life sentence rather than a death sentence. Shawn of course had refused to admit guilt to a crime he did not commit.

So now he stood frozen before the courtroom doors knowing his daughter had little chance of true justice. His attorney had explained to him what Shawn already knew. The DNA was his cross and the prosecutor would crucify him to it.

"Mr. Hickenbottom, the teddy bear please." One of the police officers gestured for Shawn to hand over the stuffed toy but he clutched it tighter to his chest wrinkling his tie.

"My attorney said it was okay." Shawn croaked out. He looked from one officer to the next. Another nodded, confirming the teddy bear had been okayed by both attorneys. There had been some dispute about it in the beginning. Shawn carried it constantly and his lawyer had seen it as a means to make Shawn seem more human and not a monstrous baby killer, to give him depth, to garner sympathy. The prosecutor had wanted to deny the teddy bear entrance into the courtroom but after some debate Prosecutor Rachel Dorsett gave in. She probably felt the DNA was enough to trump Shawn's tired looking teddy, Mr. Blue.

Shawn squared his shoulders and one of the officers led him in by the elbow. He tried to stay focused and appear confident but the faces of the people stuffed into the claustrophobic room turned on him with judgment and anger. A couple of news cameras were allowed into the courtroom and now those planted their glaring bald eyes on Shawn and traced his reluctant steps toward the front of the room and over to a table where his attorney sat with plastic glasses perched on his nose, pawing at his grey beard, looking like he didn't really care to be there. Shawn took hi seat next to the reluctant attorney and gripped the little teddy bear, pressing it to his nose and inhaling.

Shawn's mind transported him back and for one bittersweet moment he was with her again.

_Jorrie was no more than a handful. She was brand new and tiny and Shawn still felt if he wasn't careful enough he might break her. Her skin was silky to the touch and creamy like milk, her small hands clenched and unclenched and her face bunched up unhappy at her bath. Shawn watched enthralled with the moment as his wife used her hands to dribble water over Jorrie's fuzzy blonde hair. The baby screwed her face up even tighter and screamed like and angry kitten. Shawn touched her fragile little foot rubbing at it gently in attempt to distract her from the unwanted bath. For a moment she was quiet, curious at her father's calloused finger making ticklish circles on the top of her foot. Her incredibly blue eyes beheld him with awe and admiration. She reached her small hand out clenching it and unclenching it as her mother dripped small runnels of water over the little girls' shoulders. Shawn reached for his daughters' miniature hand and her dainty digits curled around his index finger clutching. Her eyes smiled at him and although she couldn't speak Shawn could feel that special word finding meaning in his daughters' small mind: Daddy._

A strangled sob erupted from Shawn as the memory gripped his heart with pain. The prosecutor stopped in the middle of her opening statement and glared at Shawn and his attorney. She proceeded with her statement painting Shawn as a monster.

The trial seemed as though it would never end. It was some infinite entity that had trapped Shawn in a never ending flow of hellish nightmare. Each day he seemed to slump more, to lose himself in his drab grey suit, to diminish. He didn't seem to be the horrible creature attorney Dorsett liked to imagine but a shell, withered and burdened and ready to crumble at any moment. One might liken his dipped head, droopy shoulders, and rounded back to the bowing boughs of a young tree trying desperately to bear up under the burden of a blanket of frozen snow and sheaths of biting ice. Unlike a young tree that could bend and rebound easily, Shawn seemed ready to snap under the pressure.

The trial dragged on and the media tripped over itself in a race to cover it and comment. One of the biggest developments was the day Shawn had to be escorted from the courtroom. On this day the medical examiner was called in and questioned so thoroughly it literally made Shawn sick. He was finally pushed over the edge when autopsy photos of his daughter were presented and the medical examiner went into detail about her sexual assault. Shawn burst into sobs and wailed incoherently. The courtroom was thrown into immediate chaos and officers rushed over to escort the hysterical defendant out of the courtroom. He tripped over his own feet and fell to his knees, his legs growing watery and unable to support himself, the officers had to carry him out. Court was adjourned for that day and there was talk of calling a mistrial, as though Shawn's gut wrenching cries were all an elaborate act to gain sympathy.

However the trial went on, though Shawn's seat next to his attorney remained empty. It was thought better to keep Shawn out of the courtroom and so he was held in a jail cell for the remainder of the trial and spent his nights turning fitfully on the thin cot they called a bed.

He lost track of time, it didn't really matter. Outside of the walls of the jail the world went on without him and sadder still without Jorrie. Once in a while Shawn's attorney stopped by to let him know how things were going but Shawn just tuned him out. The only thing that mattered was the final decision and every night Shawn mumbled prayers that justice would be served. He wanted the police to find Jorrie's real killer, to realize it was not Shawn but that the son-of-a-bitch was still out there roaming free without a care in the world.

The cold metal of the cell door clanged open. Shawn buried his face into Mr. Blue the teddy bear. Shawn was hauled off to the courthouse to hear the verdict. Disheveled and weeping he stood before the judge making brief and tearful contact with the judges scornful eyes. He knew the verdict before the judge spat it from his writhing lips.

"Michael Shawn Hickenbottom, you are found guilty of murder in the first degree. "

Shawn passed out dead away, his attorney knelt to his side and slapped Shawn's pallid cheek lightly, but he was out cold. He didn't hear the rapid succession of clicks as cameras flashed simultaneously, nor the cheers of those in the courtroom viewing the circus of events, nor the sentence of life as opposed to death. The judge felt Shawn would be tormented more with a life of hell in prison rather than being injected with death. All Shawn heard was that one word, the lie they had bestowed upon him: Guilty.

_A/N Okay…there is no real action in this chapter, please bear with me though I had to put this in. The following chapters will get a lot quicker paced. I hope this isn't too boring right now, I promise it will pick up. Let me know what you think, be honest I can handle the brutality lol. :) Thanks to those of you who have reviewed the last chapter! Love n hugs! :D_


	4. Chapter 4

_When they put you in that cell, when those bars slam home, that's when you know it's for real. Old life blown away in the blink of an eye. –Ellis Redding "Red" From The Shawshank Redemption_

The clang of the door jarred Mark Calaway from his fitful sleep. He dug a fist into his eye and rolled to the side, his joints groaning with stiffness as he stretched them out a little. Through the bleariness of departing sleep he saw a smaller man crowded back against the door, the orange jumpsuit hung on him loosely, and he rubbed at his wrists where the cuffs had chaffed against them. The man's blue eyes cast around the tiny space nervously, trying not to make contact with the sleepy green ones peering at him from the bottom bunk.

Shawn had tried to prepare himself for prison life as best he could, he had tried to figure out a mindset and focus on adjusting himself to his new life. He would have to, if he appeared weak he would certainly be prayed on. However when he was thrust into the coffin-like enclosure that was now his home, his nerves started to buzz, and when he spied the huge man curled up on the thin matt they jangled even harder.

He stayed near the door darting his eyes back and forth, daring to take a peek at the big man as he sat up and yawned. He ran a hand through his long strawberry hair and Shawn noticed his muscular arms littered with crude tattoos; probably inked behind bars.

"New fish." The man remarked with another yawn, this one seemingly bored. Shawn didn't know if he was supposed to answer or not. He felt intimidated and thought it better to get involved with no one, but then if he said nothing he might offend his cell mate and there could be various forms of hell to pay if he crossed someone on the inside the wrong way. Shawn closed his eyes for a moment trying to gather his thoughts and his courage, his tongue flicked out over his chapped lips.

"Yes."

A smirk twitched at the larger man's lips.

"I guess I won't be getting much sleep tonight then." The tattooed man hoisted himself from his bed, and Shawn tried not to cringe when he stood to his full height. He furrowed his brow at the smaller man. "New fish always cry their first night in the jug."

"Not me." Shawn said gruffly, bolding stepping closer to the man—he had to be close to seven foot tall. "I've done more than my share of crying." He bit off bitterly, not even noticing that his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. His blue eyes burned fiery, holding the gaze of his cell mate. "It hasn't helped a damn bit."

Their eyes clasped a few seconds longer, the taller man seemed to be trying to read him, an action that was more than creepy to Shawn, but he refused to show it. Instead he broke the ocular hold and climbed onto the top bunk. He lay down on it, the thin mattress hard and cold, but it seemed that was his life now. Hard and cold.

There were no more words between them that evening. Each stayed to their own, Mark curled on the bottom bunk, drifting in and out of a fitful sleep. Shawn stayed above with his hands laced behind his head. He focused on a spot on the ceiling and let his thoughts drift a bit to more pleasant times in his life. He never let his senses get too clouded with his memories though, he felt the need to keep his guard up. At any moment the man below him could slither up from his cave and overtake Shawn if he wasn't careful enough. Shawn was not stupid enough to believe he could live the rest of his life incarcerated without being raped—it was inevitable he thought—but he at least wanted to make it through the first night unmolested.

Mark's eyelids fluttered opened and closed. His mouth fell ajar and his breathing slowed as he slipped into some sort of purgatory between wakefulness and sleep. In his minds eye he saw the new fish huddled by the door seeming unsure one minute, then standing nearly toe-to-toe with him the next, a hot fleck glimmering in his sea churned eyes.

The first thing Mark had thought about him had been sexual. He was handsome despite evidence of emotional wear and tear. His hair was a beautiful golden blond and Mark could only imagine the silky feel of it sliding through his fingers. His lips would be pretty, should a smile ever grace them again. His body was probably decent too despite how the jumper hung on him. Mark got the impression he had dropped a lot of weight recently, probably due to the stresses of life that had brought him to this son-of-a-bitching place. There was a haggardness to him as though he had trudged through some hellish catastrophe in his life and been so unlucky as to come out of it on the other side, the other side being a depressed closet the screws and bigwigs called 'cells'. Mark saw them as casketts, the bodies inside had just not died yet, they were just in varying states of decay.

Falling deeper into the abyss of melancholy darkness, Mark's dreams wandered from the new fish to images he would rather forget, but was haunted by relentlessly. Some things followed him always, day or night.

_The sound cut through the night, robbing it of its innocence. The boy looked down at the weapon as it clattered to the gravel in the alleyway, a curl of smoke floating from the hot tip. The acrid bite of a spent round burned his nose, the groan of the man in front of him tortured his ears, followed by the sickening thump as the wounded man collapsed into himself. The look in his eyes was one that chilled Mark to the bone, but what made him shudder even more was that_ _he wasn't completely sorry when he saw the life snuff from his eyes. But with the way he had treated Mark and his mother who could really blame him for—_

_Blue and red lights lit up the dim corridor, they bounced and danced off of toppled trash cans and stinking dumpsters, a skeletal cat arched it's back and hissed before scampering away, padding through some of the splattered blood leaving macabre paw prints, the path of it's sudden flight. _

_Men in blue swarmed the young boy, their guns quivered in their hands as the thrust them into Mark's face, the images of the long barrels intermingled with other similar images and he felt his lunch creeping up his throat. A groan escaped him as weight fell upon him, pinning him to the ground. Hands fisted into his hair and his face was grinded against the filth and debris of the alley floor. He was pulled to his knees and a ham-sized fist plowed into his face, crumpling his nose into a bloody pulp. He writhed trying to fight back, he was big for his age, but the protectors of the peace had the upper hand. A few more blows from hands and feet attacked his body, when he wanted to collapse strong arms held him tightly in place, wrenching so hard once that his shoulder dislocated. _

"_He put up a struggle." They would later say, twisting the beating they dished out on the young boy the same way they had twisted it all. They dragged him to a squad car and shoved him into the back. He felt the car jar when two of the cops ducked into the front, tugging belts over their guts._

"_You know what kid?" One of them spat, as though he tasted poison. "You just fucked yerself up real good."_

"_Fuckin' trash." The other cursed. "Fuckin' scum."_

_Mark closed his eyes and tried to ward off the tears. He was never one who cried much, with his young life having been more often painful than pleasant, he was accustomed to the hard side of things. However, any hope he had entertained of ever rising above the shit he was born into faded. On this day, battered and bleeding on the dirty back seat of a black-and-white, he knew his life had died. He was fifteen years old. _

The night passed Shawn by slowly. He tried to come to terms with the fact that this was his new life. He was no longer Shawn Hickenbottom successful businessman, devoted father, caring lover, all of those things had been striped away from him. He was now reduced to a stenciled number glaring against an orange background.

He wondered how long his life would be in this place. He was thirty years old, the daunting number of years he could churn out behind these somber walls was overwhelming to think of. He tried to calm himself and remind himself that he could no longer think of the future, he could no longer look down the time-line and wonder what was ahead, he had to simply take each day, each moment, at a time. Anyway, what wa there to look ahead at? The purpose of his life had been taken from him Christmas morning a year ago, nothing would ever be the same.

Shawn tried to keep the dour thoughts away and focus on other things. Ever so often he would hear a creak or sigh from the man below him. Sometimes the breathing was soft, accented by the occasional snore, letting Shawn know the big guy was sleeping. Other times he could tell he was awake and tossing and grumbling to himself. Shawn was surprised when light filtered through the tiny, slit-like window, and let him know it was morning. He had survived his first night without blood or tears.


End file.
